


The Zombie AU Nobody Asked For

by ValmureEld



Series: I Tried Not to Get Into the Witcher and Look Where That Got Me [21]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Brotp, Gen, Injury, Slow Burn, What Have I Done, Whump, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 08:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14912190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValmureEld/pseuds/ValmureEld
Summary: Geralt and Eskel have been tasked with the odious job of escorting two higher vampires over a virtual minefield of toxic waste and zombies all in the name of a possible cure. Things will go fine, as long as nobody leaves Geralt and Regis unsupervised for long.Slow burn brotp in which Geralt hates Regis but gets over it and everyone is in cool futuristic armor because I have no chill.





	1. Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me why I wrote this I don't have a good excuse.

“Emiel, Dettlaff, meet Geralt and Eskel. They will be your escort.”

The room is small and concrete, lit with harsh, underground lighting that forces sharp shadows onto the vampires’ features and the witcher’s eyes into sharp slits. 

The white haired, taller one, Geralt, Regis thinks, looks tense. His expression is carefully closed and his arms are folded as though trying to give an impression of ease. It’s not working. Behind the kevlar and bite-resistant bodysuit his heartbeat is muffled, but Regis can still hear clearly that it’s elevated. A sound of someone dropping an instrument two floors up reverberates down and Geralt twitches, his fingers tightening. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Geralt, Eskel. Please, call me Regis,” Regis says, extending a hand tipped with claws to shake. Geralt’s nostrils twitch and he glances down at the hand, but he ends up clasping it firmly. 

Eskel is less hesitant, offering a polite nod of the head along with the greeting. His heartbeat, Regis notes, is much closer to the almost lazy plod he’s come to expect from Witcher subjects. He also seems to think his kevlar breastplate and sternum are protection enough.

Dettlaff keeps his hands to himself, and neither witcher seems particularly upset about it. 

“You have a long, nasty trek ahead gentlemen, so I would attempt to relax a little,” the director says, frowning at their interactions over her glasses and her clipboard. “I know you guys used to be on opposite sides but the outbreak has….severed old alliances shall we say.” 

“Never anything personal,” Eskel says, ever the diplomat. “We hunt monsters. Seems that’s a varied definition now.”

The director looks weary and she rubs at her eyes. “Indeed it does, master witcher.” She glances over at Geralt and frowns slightly at him. “Will you be able to handle this assignment, Geralt?”

His expression is still tight, his arms still crossed, a deceiving position for anyone not familiar with a Witcher’s real abilities. Other men might assume that Geralt wouldn’t be able to reach his sword before someone else pulled a trigger, but they’d pay for that assumption dearly. 

“They pass their vetting?” he grunts, those thin, black slits of pupil glancing at Regis and Dettlaff before turning back on the director. She pushes her glasses back up her nose and nods.

“They did, master Witcher. Neither has ingested human blood in the past twelve months.” 

“Then no. No problems. Just don’t like being in a box.” 

Ah, Regis thinks, glancing away so Geralt won’t feel as if he’s being studied. Claustrophobic. Or, at the very least, painfully tactical. Fighting two higher vampires in a space like this would be a suicidal endeavor. 

“Alright. Shall we for the briefing then?” she asks, gesturing to the table. All four men take a seat. Two vampires on one side of the table, two witchers on the other. The director steps to the head and lowers the lights, clicking on an old projector that coughs dust as it sputters to life. 

“Regis is a class A immune carrier and a highly experienced surgeon. He has been developing cure research in his lab in private but can get no further on his own. There is another physician on the other side of the outlands, Shani, who has had a recent breakthrough. We have hope that, with Regis’ work, they can come up with something to at least push back. Shani is a class C human, which means it’s a lot safer to send an escort with Regis to get him to her rather than her to him.”

“Dettlaff is a class B immune non-carrier,” she continues, gesturing to Dettlaff as a fuzzy map of their intended route is projected behind her. “As per our code of acknowledgement for vampire societal bonds, Dettlaff is being respected as Regis’ blood brother and will not be separated from him. He’s a more than capable warrior and can serve as life support for Regis should something dire occur. As a non carrier, his blood may also serve as another factor to help us towards a cure.”

“Geralt is a class W subclass X non carrier. He has run many supply and rescue missions and has proven after several exposures that his mutations firmly mark him as immune to all strains of the virus. As a subclass X, he has proven to have slightly better stamina and recovery time against fatigue and infection. He’s our best agent, Dr. Emiel,” she says less professionally. “Please, don’t get him killed.”

Regis nods respectfully. “I will do my utmost.”

Geralt’s arms are crossed again but he makes no comment. The sword handle over his shoulder catches the edge of the projection light and Regis doesn’t miss the silver glint of it. 

“Eskel is also a class W non carrier. He and Geralt went through the same training program and were part of the same batch of boys, but Eskel was not vetted as safe to go through experimental trials. He has, however, also proved immune to all strains of the virus. He has no subclass X traits but he is as capable a swordsman and witcher as his brother. As per their code, Eskel and Geralt will be allowed to make tactical decisions together or split up as they deem appropriate.” 

She folds her hands, looking over the four men. “Any questions?”

“Yes,” Dettlaff says, his voice a rough baritone that rivals even Geralt’s. “When do we leave?”


	2. Toxicity

The world outside is wet and muddy and Geralt is sick of trekking through it already. He sighs and his breath fogs impressively through the rain. He makes a face and looks up at the sky, adjusting his grip on his gun. 

“Freezing rain,” Eskel supplies for him, and Geralt grunts. “Least it’ll slow them down.”

Eskel’s right about that. Infected individuals have no real body heat, and they get sluggish in the cold. As he glances back at the two vampires, Geralt sees they share no such undead trait. Dettlaff’s alert hyperfocus and strong stride haven’t faltered, and Regis looks far too pleasant for the circumstances. It makes Geralt trust him even less and he burrows his head a little further into his high collar. The bodysuit he and Eskel both wear beneath the kevlar isn’t only bite-resistant to zombie teeth.

For several days, the plan progresses well. They travel on foot during the day and well into the night. The only reason they need to rest at all is to keep the Witchers’ strength up, and Geralt is starting to really resent the director for thinking a pair of higher vampires need a mortal escort. 

“Wouldn’t mist travel be faster and easier on everyone?” he’d asked, standing across from her in her office with a challenge in his posture. She didn’t even bother acknowledging it.

“They can’t travel by mist for more than a few hours at a time and it’s not for them exclusively,” she’d explained dryly, shuffling papers around and giving him a bored look over her glasses. “We need to keep an eye on them. And higher vampires can get damaged pretty badly, especially if they’re overwhelmed. Regis may not die, but if all of his cells are mangled, there’s very little left to test with and we need his brain intact. He’s really very intelligent, Geralt, and has shown incredible respect for mortal lives. You may want to give him a chance.”

“And his blood brother?” he’d asked, not budging from his arms-crossed-this-is-garbage stance. 

“Him, keep an eye on.”

Geralt intends to keep two. Eskel is far more relaxed, but Geralt knows it’s mostly surface. In less than a second Eskel could be ready to fight full-force. He’s just better at carrying his tension deeper down than Geralt is. 

“Pack approaching,” Eskel says, and Geralt’s hands tighten on his weapon, his pupils narrowing as he focuses ahead. The use of the word “pack” tips him off that this is an advanced form of the infected, not some wandering dead, and that’s a much bigger threat. These display hunting behaviors and organized formations, and their mutations are far more advanced. Geralt holds his hand up, signaling the two vampires, and while Regis pauses and looks cautious, Dettlaff immediately tenses and goes into aggressive mode. 

Geralt tries to ignore the long claws and fangs, but his heartbeat has kicked up about four notches anyway and he decides it doesn’t matter, he’s going to need the adrenaline one way or another. What does it matter which threat caused it?

The pack covers ground quickly, and it’s in a small clearing of half frozen mud and shriveled up ferns that Geralt and Eskel make their stand. Dettlaff makes quick work of the fringe spitters, his claws going right through their slobbering heads, while Eskel’s sword and careful footwork clears out the crawlers. As much as he doesn’t care for the vampire, Geralt has been hired to protect him, so he positions himself between the pack and Regis, bursts of bullets from his semi-automatic clearing out several drones before he holsters the weapon and pulls the long, wickedly sharp sword from his back.

He grits his teeth and silver sings. There’s an elation pounding in his blood as he dances in and out of the hoard, and he’d be lying to say he wasn't enjoying it even a little bit. Cold, blackened blood spatters his breastplate and runs in rivulets into the mud, and in a mere minute and a half a pack of thirty infected is neatly dispatched. Geralt stands in the middle of the corpses, his breath fogging heavier as he recovers, feeling his heartbeat burn out the adrenaline as he sheaths his sword with a satisfying rasp. Eskel steps through the bodies towards him, his gold eyes watching the perimeter. 

“That was a lot of third class mutation for a supposedly clean area,” he remarks, and Geralt hums his agreement.

“Might be a new radiation spill nearby. It’s going to slow us down if we have to re-route.” He looks up, squinting through the grey forest as the rain comes down harder, soaking into his collar. Still worked up from the fight, he’s not shivering just yet, but it’s still not wise for him to let himself get any wetter. He pulls the hood up over his head and huffs steam through the nose. 

“I’ll scout ahead,” he says at last. “I have a greater radiation tolerance than you do. Stick with the vampires.”

Eskel nods, resting his hand on the gun at his hip. 

“Geralt, wait, I may have a better alternative,” Regis says, and Geralt turns to look at his charge.

“Sooner we get this figured out the sooner we make camp for the night, so spit it out quickly,” he says, in no mood for one of Regis’ long-winded diatribes. He’s heard them before.

Regis holds up a claw in a gesture of placation, but Geralt doesn’t feel relaxed. “I only wish to avoid unnecessary risk. We do not suffer radiation illness when in our mist forms. Allow Dettlaff and I to see if our route is indeed irradiated. Should it prove too inhospitable, we can choose another route.” 

Geralt trades a look with Eskel and shakes his head. “No. No splitting up any more than necessary, and definitely no splitting up by species. I’ll check the area. If I take a dose of Gadwall and don’t stay long it won’t make me sick.” He pulls his pack off and unzips the potions section, running his fingers quickly across dozens of metal vials. 

“Gadwall is a vital and powerful healing draught,” Regis says, and he sounds concerned. “Don’t you think it would be more prudent to save it for an emergency?”

“I think it would be more prudent if I didn’t have to spend time tracking you down later because you and your escort decided to ditch,” Geralt says dryly, plucking the correct vial and popping the top off with a practiced thumb.

“We have no reason to strike off alone,” Regis says evenly, his tone so diplomatic it makes Geralt annoyed. “I want this cure to succeed as much as you do.”

“And I have no reason to trust you,” Geralt says, side-eyeing the vampire and straightening up. “For all I know you’re trying to fix this disease so you have your food source back. Hard to enjoy blood when it’s half coagulated and swarmed with disease.” 

“Geralt, they passed their testing,” Eskel says reasonably. “They haven’t even twitched to drink from either of us, maybe let up a little.”

“Yet,” he growls, and downs the potion in one swallow. Gritting his teeth and grimacing at the taste, he puts the empty vial away and hefts his pack again, settling it against his back and securing the buckle across his chest. “I’m scouting ahead,” he says, no room for argument in the tone. “Stay here and keep watch. If there’s trouble, Eskel, send up a flare of Igni and I’ll get back to you.”

Eskel sighs, but he turns towards the edge of the little clearing and stands guard. Dettlaff says nothing, but Geralt can feel the vampire’s icy eyes on his back. 

The rain gets worse as he leaves the edge of the woods about a half mile away from their fight, and Geralt starts to shiver. He climbs a ridge and draws his sword, finding it best to have it always ready when there’s a potential radiation site nearby. Radiation changed the infected in all kinds of unpredictable ways, and after getting bitten quite badly by one that could shimmer in and out with camouflage like a bruxa he’d learned his lesson. 

He’s looking out over what should have been their next day’s path: an open plain of relatively easy to traverse rock and sand. Scrub brush and rotting clay-harvester’s shacks are the only real spots of color in the landscape, and the high level of visibility makes it a good, safe choice as long as they avoid the sinkholes. At least, safer than the city to the north where unstable buildings and several barricades from the early outbreak are still standing. 

Geralt moves in, sword in one hand, radiation stone in the other. Magically treated, it’s more reliable than a geiger counter and more specific on the kind of danger. Blue is tolerable. Green is edging on a problem but two witchers would survive. Red, orange, and purple are all deadly colors that warn a high chance of not only radiation death but drastic and unstable mutations in the infected. 

For the first mile the stone is only a faint blue, but it is growing stronger and Geralt is starting to weigh his options as he skirts another patched over sinkhole.

He decides a little radiation is still preferable to the city. 

Not fifteen minutes later he makes the mistake of stepping too casually forward. A rotten platform mostly hidden by sand breaks beneath him, and suddenly he’s staggering backward to keep his footing and avoid pitching headfirst into the sludge. The rest of the boards are quickly disappearing, swallowed up by the long abandoned clay pit. 

The smell of toxins and the wall of sudden heat are so strong he staggers back another few feet, his eyes watering and his face blistering up. He shields his mouth with his arm and doesn’t need to glance at the rock to know there was no way they can continue as planned. Judging by the plethora of platforms like the one he’s just broken, the entire field is a pockmarked death trap of radiation pits. 

He swears loudly and retreats.

“We need a new plan,” he growls, angrily shoving his soaked hood off as he returns to the camp. Eskel has started a fire and someone’s woven a crude shelter, keeping a good portion of the rain off all their backs. Geralt crouches in front of the flames and holds his hands out, ignoring Regis’ look of concern. He knows he must still look patchy--even with Gadwall it’s going to take a few hours for the rest of the peeling to stop on his face and neck. 

“Yikes, worse than we thought, huh?” Eskel asks, digging in his pack and tossing a tin of ointment across the fire. Geralt catches it and gratefully twists it open. 

“Much. There are sinkholes everywhere and the radiation is off the charts,” he says tossing his stone into the firelight. It’s turned black. Eskel grimaces, picking it up. 

“Good thing you took that Gadwall,” he says, glancing at Geralt with concern. “Might want to take some Swallow as well.” 

Geralt grunts, smoothing the last of the ointment he needs into his jaw and closing the tin again. “Thanks, Vesimir.” 

Eskel quirks a small smirk and catches the tin as Geralt tosses it back.  
The city is a minefield, quite literally.

“I’m asking this in all seriousness because my nose is still shot from inhaling radiation: Can any of you smell explosives?” 

Geralt asks, standing at the top of a crumbling chunk of cement and rebar. He has no idea what the building used to be because now it’s a pile crawling with dark vines and slippery with mosses. The collapse is old enough for nature to have worked her way back in, but new enough for their team to tread carefully. When the dead first walked and the cities fell, those who remained had turned entire streets into battlegrounds and it was common to find sleeping mines, pitfalls, and bear traps among the remains. 

“I can usually find shallow ceramic mines before it’s too late but that’ll be slow going since I need to be on top of them,” Eskel answers. He’s perched above Geralt’s head on another chunk of wall, sitting comfortably on his haunches with his rifle balanced on his knees. He’s scanning the terrain ahead, a thoughtful glint in his eyes. 

“Our sense of smell is good enough to find most explosives,” Regis supplies, moving up the pile to stand next to Dettlaff, “but I sincerely believe there is a safer, and easier way.”

“Is it quicker?” Eskel asks, glancing down. “Because I don’t like this detour. We’re adding a good twenty miles to our route and we’re already behind schedule. The longer we’re out here the more risk for everyone.” He shoots Geralt a significant look and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“If the vampire has a better idea than ‘split up’ again I’m all ears.”

“I do as a matter,” Regis says calmly, straightening up from his crouched position. His hand is resting on his medicine pack strap, as is his habit, and his dark eyes are surveying the landscape critically. “As mist we will not trigger explosives and yet can survey for traps. You allow us to move ahead of you--only just ahead,” he amends as Geralt opens his mouth “--and you step only where we indicate it is safe.”

Even Eskel looks dubious this time and Geralt snorts, shaking his head. “Perfect way to ditch both of us in a heartbeat, though.”

“Geralt--” Regis starts, looking like he’s holding back frustration, but he doesn’t have the chance to finish. Dettlaff has blurred into a rush of pitch black smoke and flooded into Geralt’s body so fast and so hard he knocks him right down the slope of rubble onto the ground twelve feet below. 

Eskel’s sword is out in a flash and he leaps after them, but Dettlaff has already solidified and has Geralt solidly pinned on his back, a sharp, half-formed thumb claw pressed hard into his carotid. 

Geralt is straining, the wind having been knocked out of him and when he finally manages a harsh gasp his back arches, pushing his body definitely against Dettlaff’s iron strength. His fingers twitch to form a sign before the oxygen has hardly made it back into his lungs but Dettlaff’s other claw snaps out and pins his arm harshly, his teeth bared in a hiss.

“I need no bomb to kill you, Witcher, so if I wanted you dead I wouldn’t suffer your insults nor waste my time with theatrics,” Dettlaff says harshly. 

His face is bent so close to Geralt’s that he can feel the vampire’s unnaturally cool breath. The claw digs further into Geralt’s throat and he swallows against the pressure, grabbing at Dettlaff’s wrist as though he could stop him. His heart is pounding against his armor and his teeth are grit in defiance. 

Eskel’s silver sword under Dettlaff’s chin doesn’t deter him at all. 

“Let him go,” Eskel commands. The sword bites a little further and a trickle of blood wets Dettlaff’s skin. The vampire doesn’t even blink, his silvery eyes locked on Geralt’s gold. Slowly, he moves the claw out of Geralt’s throat, smoothing down the racing artery with the pad of his thumb in a way that makes Geralt grind his teeth as goosebumps bristle all over his body. 

“Now let him up. Slowly back off him.”

“Not until my point is made.”

“You’ve made it,” Eskel says shortly. “And you’re right. You could kill him. And me. But not before we both deal you some serious damage. Damage that would be difficult to handle in the middle of nowhere when you’re surrounded by the dead. So let him up, and if you ever threaten him again, you’ll learn everything I know about hunting vampires in a matter of seconds.” 

“Dettlaff,” Regis says softly, and it’s clear Dettlaff is already more inclined to listen. “Please. Let him up. You are better than this.”

He does, and Geralt takes a moment on his back, hand going to his throat like he can’t believe it’s intact. His thumb smears a drop of bright blood across his skin and he huffs an unsteady breath of relief. Eskel offers a hand and Geralt clasps it, pulling himself back to his feet. 

“Anything broken?” Eskel asks, hands systematically working their way across Geralt’s chest anyway, pressing into the softer joints of the armor to test Geralt’s ribcage. 

Geralt is still breathing hard, glaring daggers at Dettlaff over Eskel’s shoulder as he keeps his arms out of the way so Eskel can finish looking him over. They’d both been taught early on how to check for injury and Geralt still feels like his whole body is ringing from the fall so he accepts the exam. 

“Think you’re good,” Eskel says, and though it’s nonchalant Geralt knows him well enough to hear the relief in his voice. His hand falls away from the bottom of Geralt’s ribcage and Geralt squeezes Eskel’s shoulder in thanks before pushing past him to face both vampires with a snarl on his face.

“Let me be clear,” he growls, staring down Dettlaff with an expression as furious as his namesake. “We were hired to get Regis and his research to Shani. You’re here out of respect, paid to another sentient species. Act like an animal again, and you’ve lost that.”

Dettlaff sneers. “And what respect have you afforded us, witcher? You’ve mistrusted us at every turn, wasted time striking out alone when there was no need. Perhaps you’re the one delaying the mission with some ulterior intent.”

“Nothing ulterior about it,” Geralt says nastily. “Just don’t trust anybody who has children on their conscience.” 

His eyes flick over to Regis and Regis works his jaw, dropping his head with a profound expression of shame.

“Now that we’re settled?” Geralt asks, drawing his gun and checking the clip before giving Dettlaff a chance to do something besides stare at him with a cold fury. “Good.” 

He snaps the clip in with an aggressive click and turns, casting quen at the same time. A gold light envelops his body for a moment and then fades, leaving only the faintest shimmer on his skin and the distinctive gold motes of light that circle his chest with a pulsing regular as a heartbeat. Eskel does the same, and the two witchers lead the way. 

They trekk on till nightfall in a silence broken only by soft warnings.


	3. Buried Therapy

“This city is a nightmare,” Eskel says, wiping black sludge of some kind from his face with a grimace. He shakes it off his hand, shifting his stance as much as the low tunnel will allow. They’d found part of the old rail system and were using it to avoid a small herd still mulling around in the east part of the city, but it is slow going and Geralt thinks he’s probably walked through, inhaled, and spit out at least four different kinds of toxic waste. 

“This mission has turned into a nightmare,” Geralt mutters, his temper growing shorter with his lack of sleep. It’s been two days making their way across the city’s corpse and he hasn’t done more than napped for an hour in that time while Eskel scouted a better route than a side road full of spike mines. 

“We’re running out of tunnel,” Regis reports, materializing from the mist form Geralt had finally acquiesced to him taking in order to more quickly check their progress. Geralt groans, running a hand through his hair and peering menacingly up at the ceiling. His hair tie had broken three hours back and he’s finally fed up, snapping a leather strap off of Eskel’s backpack and tying it around his forehead with an aggressive yank. 

“Good looking, Rambo,” Eskel snorts. Geralt ignores him. 

“Alright, we’re headed back to surface, making camp, and then tomorrow even if we have to bomb a path we’re getting out of this city,” he says, climbing the last pile of twisted metal that had once been a track and hopping down. His breath mists before him and his eyes flash with a cat potion as he surveys the wall for good hand holds. A moment later he’s climbing towards the crack that leads to fading daylight. 

Their camp is on the roof of an old gas station. The wind is harsher up here but the fire is holding and it’s far safer than being on the ground where collapsing buildings and wandering dead can trigger an explosion. It also has the advantage of a better over all view and Geralt and Eskel have spent over an hour standing on the edge, planning. Regis looks up from the fire where he’s quietly preparing rations, his brow furrowed as he observes the pair. 

“Geralt is testing my patience,” Dettlaff says quietly, his silver glare fixed on the man’s back. “Perhaps we should give into his opinions and just leave.”

“I don’t want to do that. This mission is too important for everyone involved and staying with the Witchers is the safest option. Not all our kind are as fortunate as we are to be immune,” Regis says evenly, turning over a packet of food with his bare hand and brushing the ash away. “Geralt is perfectly within his rights not to trust us, or to trust me. He read my file. What I’ve done is no secret, Dettlaff.” 

“What you were, has passed on,” Dettlaff says, anger in his voice. Regis sighs, sitting back next to the other vampire and resting his forearms on his knees. “He has no right to judge you by the creature that is dead.”

“He has every right,” Regis says quietly. “Humans do not have the concept of a resurrected forgiveness as we do, Dettlaff. How could they? They live brief lives and have no second chance after, short of some very black magic. You resurrected me, gave me a new life and a clean path on which to walk it and I will be forever in your debt, but Geralt understands as much as I do that the part of me that fed on human young still exists. Even if it’s in some small sliver of my darker soul. Would you find it so easy to forgive, if you discovered that Geralt had fed on vampire young for the mere pleasure of it?”

Dettlaff wrinkles his nose in displeasure and looks away, his hunched back and upset posture casting darker shadows onto his body. “It is not the same. Witchers have killed thousands of us, millions, and some do it purely for sport.”

“From what I understand, not Geralt. Or his brother.” Regis waits, looking long at Dettlaff before placing a concerned hand on the other vampire’s shoulder. “Geralt is judging me by my deeds, Dettlaff, not by my species. He is tense because his training and his instincts tell him to be. You cannot fault him what he cannot help.” 

Dettlaff doesn’t answer to that and Regis sighs, letting his hand slip away and getting up. He goes to the two Witchers at the edge, choosing to stand well on Eskel’s side so both can see him. “Any luck?”

“We have a plan,” Geralt says, folding up a map and tucking it under his breastplate before zipping it closed again. “That’s enough for tonight.”

“Very well,” Regis says, clasping his hands behind his back. “The food should be done shortly. I’ll take watch tonight.” 

Geralt looks long and hard at Regis but Eskel claps him on the shoulder and shakes his head. 

Both witchers retire, leaving Regis to watch the last of the sunlight as it is sponged from the sky. 

The next day does not go any smoother than the last several, and even though Geralt has slept at this point, he’s in a foul mood by mid-day because it looks like it will take them at least another day to get out.

Maybe that’s why he’s not paying as much attention as he should. Whatever the reason, one moment he’s striding ahead over broken concrete and brown grass that’s as high as his waist, the next, he’s knocked bodily into the fragile building to his right and an explosion blacks out all his senses at once.

As the dust settles, Regis is coughing it up. He doesn’t need to breathe, per-se, at least not often, but he’d inhaled to try and warn Geralt right before he activated the trip wire and hadn’t had the chance. Instead, he’d done the only thing he could think to do, and that was tackle the Witcher full-force and hope for the best. 

Looking around in their pit of dust, debris, and grit, Regis has to admit that this is not the best. The explosion has collapsed not only part of the building, it’s taken out part of the street, which means that the dark roof of unstable slabs above them is the wall that had been shaken down. He and Geralt are below ground and buried under a precarious dome of rubble. 

Regis is having a hard time moving. He’s on top of Geralt, and something very heavy is pressing them both down. The Witcher, aside from a lingering and shock-rapid heartbeat, is silent. Regis coughs again and groans, pushing up to slide the concrete off of them both. He stays over Geralt’s unconscious form long enough to make sure that shifting isn’t going to bring everything down on them, and then he carefully moves off, eyes adjusting to the very low light so he can look Geralt over.

The witcher is limp and unresponsive, and Regis grimaces in sympathy when he feels around Geralt’s skull and finds blood. Now that it’s on his fingers he’s overwhelmed by the scent of it and he realizes with a jolt that Geralt is bleeding.

A lot.

The source is all too obvious, and Regis is only dimly aware of the calls from Dettlaff and Eskel above them as he stares at the piece of rebar protruding from Geralt’s chest. 

“We’re alive, we’re down here. Tread lightly, the roof is unstable and Geralt is injured,” Regis calls back, gently probing around the injury and calculating exactly where Geralt’s been penetrated. He thinks back to his studies of human anatomy and projects those images over Geralt’s chest, starting at his collarbone and gently feeling his way down the soft part of his armor. 

By the sound of his heart it is soundly intact and the bar isn’t in a good place to have ripped up any arteries, but Regis checks anyway, pressing his sensitive fingers into the softer bodysuit between the separated plates of Geralt’s armor. He can’t get at the breastbone area but that suits him fine and instead seeks out the apex of Geralt’s heart, his expression going distant and his jaw unclenching as he focuses everything he has into listening. Under his fingers Geralt’s pulse is a strong, certain rhythm and the sound of it is resonant in a way that a torn chamber couldn’t be. Regis finds himself momentarily mesmerized by the sound and wonders that he hadn’t noticed its quality sooner. 

“Your heart is intact and doing its duty admirably,” Regis mutters, continuing down and grimacing when he finds a few cracked ribs around the penetration site. It’s a one-way injury, meaning there’s an entry but no exit and Regis can’t decide if that’s better or worse right now. 

Geralt is still trying to breathe, but the action is unnatural and aborted before it even begins. Regis quickly realizes that Geralt can only inflate his lungs a fraction of the way because of the angle of the bar and the way it’s still weighted by some concrete, so, he very carefully grasps the bar further down and snaps the concrete right off. The bar is much lighter now and Geralt’s body responds at once, his ribs expanding as he takes a much deeper breath. 

The pain must be what jolts him awake because he arches his back with a pitiful groan that turns into a gurgle, his head grinding into the dust and his eyes flashing as they open to catch a strangled ray of light.

“Easy, don’t move you’ve had a piece of rebar go into your chest cavity,” Regis instructs. Geralt turns his head and half-coughs, half spits out the blood in his mouth, and Regis isn’t entirely sure how he manages to stay conscious. 

“By the placement and the blood your lung is absolutely compromised,” he continues, and distantly he can hear arguing from the two men above trying to get to them. He blocks it out, all his focus on the injured man in front of him. 

Geralt is grasping at the bar, and Regis snatches his hand, stopping him. “Geralt, no, you remove it before Eskel and Dettlaff can get to us and you risk bleeding out more quickly.” 

Geralt glares at him, teeth grit. I don’t trust you, the vampire reads in his eyes, still bright and defiant through the pain. I won’t trust you.

But Geralt is smart. He knows better than to just remove a penetrating injury. “Supplies...in my bag...same….as Eskel…” he gasps, his voice painfully strained. 

Regis hesitates, his grip slackening on Geralt’s wrist only for a moment. That’s the only moment the Witcher needs, and before Regis can realize his intent Geralt rips the bar out of his own side with a roar. 

“Geralt!” he exclaims, alarm lancing through him as Geralt drops the bar, dripping with his blood onto the ground. His skin is paler than any living thing should be and he must be in some kind of high-functioning shock state that he’s not blacked out again. 

Regis suddenly recalls a story of a field medic during the war who had a Witcher die in his tent. Before the body had even cooled he’d realized that the man had survived and then remained conscious for an astounding twelve minutes with a ruined heart. Regis hadn’t believed anything could do that, not even a Witcher. Watching Geralt struggle to sit up and get into his pack with a hole in his chest Regis doesn’t doubt it anymore.

“Won’t wait….to be crushed…” Geralt grinds through his teeth, the words coppery. Or for you to kill me. I won’t depend on a vampire to save my life. 

Regis clenches his jaw and snatches the pack away from Geralt, using his anger to dig through it. “I am aware you don’t trust me and you don’t have to, but if you continue this way you will die before Eskel can get to you, is that what you desire?” he snaps, pulling a swallow potion out faster than Geralt’s bloody hands could and holding out the vial. Geralt bares his teeth at him but takes the vial, drinking it without comment. His hand is clamped down on his side and his breathing doesn’t sound good at all. As he flops back onto the slope of debris and closes his eyes his chest is working too hard for breath and Regis watches him grimly, listening to his heart as it continues despite Geralt’s abuse of the structures around it. 

“Not so...easy to kill,” Geralt gasps, but then falls silent, sounding like he is out of breath. Regis narrows his eyes at him, quickly losing his grasp on his patience.

“At this rate, Geralt, you’ll be killing yourself by virtue of sheer stubborn refusal to accept aid and I don’t fancy--”

“--guys hear us? Hey, Regis! Can you hear us?”

Regis looks up, standing as dust falls from the shifting of slabs to coat both he and Geralt in grey dust. “Stop, don’t!” he shouts, reflexively raising his hands even though nobody can see him. “We can hear you, we must tread carefully I--” he looks around, thinking quickly. “There’s a basement level to this building. It will be safer to come in from the side. Have Dettlaff smell us out. Geralt is….” he looks down, pausing as he takes in the ailing Witcher. “I’ll keep Geralt alive,” he says instead, kneeling and forcibly taking hold of Geralt’s head, turning his eyes into the light and studying the pupils even as they narrow on him in anger. 

Geralt’s hand grabs at his wrist but Regis tenses against it, far stronger than Geralt and sick of his stubbornness. The Witcher is panting shallowly now, his skin covered in a cold sweat. Regis can hear the strain in every breath as a horrible grating and what’s worse is he thinks he knows what the problem is. 

“Listen to me, Geralt, and listen carefully. Your swallow cannot stop you suffocating under the pressure of the air you are building in your chest. You have two options. You can continue to fight me until you lose consciousness and I can respect your inane wishes and refrain from treating you, or you can allow me to help and perhaps return to the lady who gave you that star.” He nods to a silver pendant on a leather cord that has worked its way out of Geralt’s bodysuit and is now resting on his shuddering chest. 

Geralt hisses through his teeth but there’s little venom in the sound. Regis thinks he must be too focused on trying to stay conscious against the pain that he can’t muster a retort. 

“Continue this way long enough, and the air will place pressure on your heart as well,” Regis adds. “Even if I can save you after that, you could have permanent damage. If you read my file, you know I am a skilled surgeon, not only a reformed addict. I can save you, Geralt,” he says, gripping Geralt’s arm and catching his eyes. “Let me.” 

Geralt stares him down, throat working, chest shuddering as a drop of sweat mixes with blood and runs into his collar. Finally, his hand relaxes and he closes his eyes, giving a nod that barely looks like more than a shudder. At this point, Regis can hear the difference in Geralt’s heartbeat, and he needs to work quickly. The air in his chest is muffling the sound of the valves, and Regis can only imagine how painful it must be to still be so aware. “Your mutations are saving you, but at a serious cost,” he observes grimly, pulling Geralt’s left arm up out of the way. “This will hurt a great deal, I warn you.” 

Feeling down Geralt’s ribs, Regis counts carefully in his head, picturing the anatomy just a few centimeters from his claws. Stopping a few ribs down, he marks the place with a hand and then extends the claw on the other. “Hold as still as you possibly can,” he says, and Geralt opens his eyes just in time to see as Regis plunges his claw through the bodysuit and right into his chest wall. 

Geralt’s pupils draw into razor thin slits and he arches his neck, a wheeze of pain clogging the back of his throat. Regis’ free hand is holding him still, so there’s little recoil when the vampire pulls his claw back. A sharp hiss of air follows and Geralt gasps a huge breath, his eyelids fluttering closed and his heart quickly coming back to a loud, rapid thunder in Regis’ ears. 

“That’s it, breathe,” he instructs, tilting his head as he transforms his features to that of the feeding monster. Bracing with his eyes squeezed shut, Regis snaps off a long, thin fang, grinding his teeth against the blood and pain as he transforms back and carefully breaks the tip off of the tooth. Using the little light they have, he holds it up and peers through it, satisfied that the hollow channel normally good for delivering his venom to a victim will just as cleanly allow the air to continue to escape from Geralt’s chest. Feeling back into the wound despite Geralt’s intercostal muscle tensing around him, Regis works the fang into the hole and braces it there, watching as the swallow starts a clot. 

“That should tide you over,” he says, swallowing the blood in his own mouth down. “Just lay there and remember how to breathe again. It will take some time before your lung fills completely. Until Dettlaff and Eskel get here, there’s little we can do but wait.” 

He sits down next to his patient, rubbing at the sore place in his jaw where the fang had once been housed. It’s a dull ache that will disappear in a few hours, so nothing compared with what Geralt will be recovering from.

For a while there is nothing in their seclusion besides the hiss of the air through the fang and the rhythmic tide of blood in Geralt’s body. Despite his hostility, Regis is relieved to hear it slowing and steadier. It means, at least for now, Geralt is stable. 

“Why?”

The voice is a rasp, and Regis looks up from his quiet thoughts, raising an eyebrow as he meets Geralt’s weary gaze. 

“Why save you?”

Geralt nods once. 

“Because when I perished and Dettlaff gave me a new chance at life, I realized how fragile even a vampire’s existence can be. That changed me, Geralt.” He furrows his brow, studying the witcher’s face, but for a moment he seems ready to hear him out and so Regis continues. 

“It may be fanciful of me, but I found myself coming to...treasure life. All life. The life of the mice that took scraps from the room where Dettlaff kept me hidden. The life in the insects that were all I could see on days where I couldn’t move for the pain. The life in the vampire who saved me. Even the life of a Witcher.”

“Doesn’t make me….forget.” 

Regis nods. “I know,” he says softly, dropping his gaze. “How could you forget when I cannot myself? I know what I am. What I did. What I still dream at times of doing. But Dettlaff gave me a new life, and in so doing placed value on my head. It is my duty to live up to that value, to show that his mercy was not misguided. I understand your anger, Geralt. Your mistrust of me, your unwillingness to forgive my past. Many humans feel as you do. Sometimes I wonder myself.”

He takes a deep breath, meeting Geralt’s eyes again. “However...I am alive. I accept that gift out of respect for the one who gave it. And I use it in tribute of the lives I took. Killing me may satisfy the human sense of justice. Perhaps it would be right. But it does not revive those I killed and it secures the loss of all those I have saved and can yet save.” He blinks, searching the witcher’s face. “Tell me, do you believe in destiny?”

He almost expects Geralt to mock him, but instead the witcher casts his gaze away, his throat visibly bobbing as he swallows hard. “Yes,” he says at last, and Regis finds he wants to know the person that sparked his response. Perhaps some day Geralt will tell him. 

“This plague, Geralt. It is a terror unlike anything I’ve witnessed in the centuries I have lived, and it may very well be my purpose, my destiny if you will, to stop it. What I’ve discovered in the properties of my blood, in the properties of the virus--I have hope. Shani may very well have the final piece. It is why I am determined to get to her.” 

He sits for a moment, listening to the wheezing in Geralt’s chest before reaching out a hand, gently nudging Geralt’s arm aside and checking on the fang. It’s still soundly in place, and his breathing is gradually getting stronger. Geralt is less hostile this time, leaving his head laying back. 

He twitches as Regis shifts focus and raises a hand slowly towards his throat, but when he doesn’t move to stop him Regis rests the pads of his fingers carefully against the skin. He feels Geralt watching him and even though it is Geralt with two holes in his chest and his pulse under a vampire’s claws, Regis is the one who feels exposed. He glances up to meet that gaze, looking into the fire of the raw life in Geralt’s eyes and thinks for a moment how fragile and yet how staggeringly strong that fire is. 

“Life is beautiful in a way I cannot describe fully,” Regis says softly, letting his fingers slip from Geralt’s throat. “It is why I must fight this plague, and why I chose to save you. I relish death only in a very few, and I promise you are not one of them. Your anger towards me reveals little more than a noble heart that cannot abide the murder of innocents. How can I stand by and allow a heart like that to die when I have the tools to keep it beating?”

Geralt says nothing to that, his expression furrowed as he searches Regis’ face. The hostility is gone, replaced by a weary uncertainty. Regis sits back to give Geralt some space, feeling there is nothing more for him to say.

They are quiet together until a shifting of rubble and cloud of dust finally announces their rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all I ended up writing but if I have more ideas or there's interest I'd like to write it through to a coherent ending.


End file.
